by Wynne Roman
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But here you are, calling because you’re pissed off about some way you think she let you down. Well, what about Paige? You haven’t even asked how she’s doing.”
“I . . .”
I can see Paige swallow. It isn’t hard to figure out it’s because of the shock on her face. Because I’m giving her mom the shit she deserves, or because Mrs. Hamilton doesn’t have a comeback.
“The truth is, yeah, some shit went down. It wasn’t Paige’s fault. Any of it. She got caught in the crossfire, and we’re dealing with it. She needs some time to work through it, and she’ll call you when she’s ready. I hope you’ll think about her then, and not just yourself.” And then I hang up.
“Noah!” screeches Paige when I drop the phone on the entry table.
“I’m sorry, baby, but I’ve wanted to say shit like that to her since high school. She was a bitch back then, and she’s still a bitch. I just couldn’t stand it any—oof.”
Words desert me when Paige throws herself into my arms.
“Paige? Sweetness?”
She hugs me tight, and then drops her head back. “Nobody has ever stuck up for me like that.”
“Really?” And, fuck, if that doesn’t make me feel like shit. If nobody’s ever stuck up for her like that, it means I never did before, either.
“Never.”
She moves like she expects me to release her. I don’t, and so she lays her head against my chest for a few seconds.
“I should have stuck up for myself years ago, but—” she shakes her head, her soft cheek rubbing against me “—when I was little, I was scared. As I got older, I just didn’t care enough. She’d say whatever it was she wanted to, I’d walk away, and I wouldn’t really think about it anymore.”
“You did think about it, though, baby.”
She looks up at me. “No, I didn’t.”
I nod. “You did. All those times you worried if you were good enough. That was because of her.”
And because of me, too. I know it. Worse, because of Marlie and the threesome and all the other things I’ve done, but we’ll work through that separately. She will never have reason to feel insecure about herself because of me again.
“You think?”
“Oh, baby, I know.” I bend down to drop a light kiss on her lips. It’s all I dare at the moment.
She smiles against my mouth. “Well, I’m going to take you at your word for now. My mother isn’t getting by with that stuff ever again.”
Chapter Thirty
Paige
Being here with Noah is amazing. He’s been sweet through everything. He did whatever he could to protect me from Elyssa and the danger she brought with her. Since then, he’s held me, cared for me, invited me in to every part of his life. He even confronted my mother. Listening to what he said, talking with him after, I gained some new insight to the screwed up relationship I have with her.
It’s affected me more than I ever realized until now.
Noah, on the other hand, makes me feel so . . . treasured. Valued and important. It’s weird, it’s easy, and it’s right.
And there’s one more truth.
It’s love.
For me. I’m in love with Noah Dexter. Again. Still. Something.
It happened so easily, so quickly, it makes me wonder if I ever really fell out of love with him. I’m beginning to think I just convinced myself that I was over it—over him—when it wasn’t true at all. My feelings for him were much stronger and more resilient than I could admit, even to myself. I see now that they never went away at all. In order to survive, I buried them as deep as I could, because I didn’t think I could have him.
Things might have been different if I’d been older, more mature and experienced. I could have handled everything so much better after the whole ménage a trois fiasco with Marlie. I could have communicated with Noah instead of going off and pouting. I could have asked him questions and told him how I felt.
Maybe then I could have salvaged something of our relationship.
But I didn’t and he didn’t, and there’s a good chance that’s how it was supposed to happen. It seems pretty obvious now that we both had lives to experience and lessons to learn.
We did that, and maybe this is our chance to come back together again.
But—and it’s a pretty big but—does Noah feel the same way?
It robs me of breath to think that he might not. I know it’s a possibility and consider it for a few seconds until I remember something he said to me.
The only time my mind and my emotions have ever been engaged with a woman are when I’ve been with you.
That means something, doesn’t it?
I’m in the apartment alone. Noah and the rest of the band had to meet with the lawyers to sign some stuff, and I have plans.
Big plans.
First things first. I put together a plate of ham and cheese sliders on sweetbread and heat some jalapeno poppers stuffed with cream cheese and sausage. I find a white marble wine cooler in the cupboard along with long-stemmed glasses, and we bought a nice bottle of Riesling that day at Whole Foods. I lay it all out on the coffee table, covered with a blue table cloth that matches the décor. I smile to myself, assuming that there has to be a woman in the mix of whoever sublet the condo to Noah.
Next are the blinds. They’ve been pulled open since I got here, but now I lower them over the plate glass windows. Not for privacy; we’re on the twenty-third floor, for heaven’s sake. It’s for ambiance, because I want to light candles—again, assuming I have an unknown woman to thank for a beautiful candelabra and tall white tapers.
I finish up with a shower, style my hair into long, loose waves, and then apply a small amount of makeup. No foundation, just nude eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara. Then, I finish off by getting dressed.
My undies are a brand-new set of see-through bra and thong panties. They’re a soft bluish-green color with the outline of broad-petaled flowers sewn into the fabric. I saw them when browsing in an exclusive little lingerie shop and bought them because I couldn’t resist.
That was almost a year ago, and I’ve never had the right occasion to wear them. How could I have ever guessed it would be for Noah?
The last item is a special dress, one I’ve only worn a couple of times—and that was when I needed an extra boost of confidence. Maybe that’s true now, too.
It’s long, with narrow straps over my shoulders, a plunging neckline, and a deep slit up over one leg. Seafoam green color, it’s decorated with bright pink tropical flowers and wraps around my waist to draw attention to where the slit starts. It is, quite literally, the sexiest thing I own.
I toy with the idea of wearing heels—five-inch stilettoes, because I have some that would go perfectly—but ultimately decide against it. Sex in heels may look good in porn, but I don’t wear them often enough to trust my balance.
Besides, I have other places where I want to direct my attention. I stick with bare feet, my toes luckily painted with a nice pink polish that matches well enough.
I’m ready. I go back into the main room, check all my preparations, take a peek at the clock, and see it’s time, or nearly so. Based on the timing Noah gave me when he left, he ought to be back in a few minutes.
I light the candles and find my phone for a special playlist I made earlier, at the same time when I synced my phone to his speakers. It’s not exactly the one I call Motown, but it’s one I know he’ll like. I queue it up and wait for him to enter before I push play.
The instant I hear his key in the door, I touch the arrow on the screen. Marvin Gaye’s soulful voice fills the air and he sings those very important words. Let’s Get It On.
Noah stops just inside the doorway and stares. He doesn’t move, not a muscle, except for the sweep of those bright blue eyes. They’re wide, and they search over me from head to toe.
“Sweetness?”
I smile in a way I hope is sexy. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”
He blinks, looks behind him, realizes the door is still open, and then spins around. He slams the door shut, locks it, and turns back to me.
He swallows. “Did I, like, stumble into a parallel universe or something?”
“Why?”
“Because . . . this.” He waves his hand around in the air. “You’ve never—nobody has ever—put together a seduction scene like this for me.”
It strikes me as sad suddenly that, no matter how many times or ways Noah’s had sex, he’s never been made to feel special or desired in the way he should be. Except for our years in high school, it’s always been about kink or his cock or his money or fame.
It shouldn’t be. He deserves more.
He deserves better.
This is all about him, and he needs to know that.
I glide across the floor as gracefully as possible, take his keys and his phone from his loose hands, and deposit them on the entryway table. I pull him forward, linking my fingers with his, and guide him around to the sofa.
“Here,” I say. “Sit down and relax.”
He gives a rueful laugh, like he doesn’t believe it’s possible, but does as I ask. I pour him a glass of wine and then crouch next to his feet.
“Let’s get these off you.” Thank God he’s wearing a pair of Vans slip-ons and not his usual motorcycle boots.
I pull off the shoes, slip them under the coffee table, and change positions until I’m kneeling next to him on the couch. “This, too,” I say as I pull the ponytail holder from his hair and let it tumble around his shoulders.
Goddamn he looks sexy! If he was wearing eyeliner like they do on stage, I think I might come by just looking at him.
The music shuffles from Marvin to Barry White. Never Gonna Give Ya Up. Noah’s gaze shoots to mine.
He takes a long sip of wine. “Miss Hamilton, you’re trying to seduce me. Aren’t you?”
He twists the line from The Graduate, and we both smile. We saw the movie together years ago, when he first entered his 60s and 70s phase. The Simon and Garfunkle song led us there, and we loved it.
“Maybe,” I admit and lean forward to take his earlobe into my mouth. I swirl my tongue around before I close my teeth, and I’m rewarded with a little shudder that runs all the way through him. “Is it working?”
He takes my hand and presses my palm against his crotch. He’s hard. Long and broad and as hard as I’ve ever felt, even through his shorts.
“What do you think?” he asks, and places his hand over mine. He pushes, lets up, pushes again.
I rub lightly, curl my fingers around him as best I can, and he responds with a quick, indrawn breath.
“Do you want something to eat?” I ask, trying desperately to stick to my plan.
He gives a funny mix of cough, choke, and laughter. “Food? No way, sweetness. I can barely drink the wine.”
I pull back and glance at his glass. It’s nearly empty. He follows my gaze, tosses back the last little bit of wine, and then lets the goblet slip from his fingers. It tumbles from the couch cushion and onto the floor. I can’t bring myself to move enough to see if it’s broken.
Who cares about that when Noah is looking at me like he’s ready to self-combust?
“Then let me take care of you,” I whisper with a little smile. I crawl onto his lap and settle with a knee on either side of his hips.
He smiles devilishly and reaches for me. I stop him, rest his hands on my hips, and lean in to kiss him.
“That’s it, baby. Your hands stay there. I’m in charge.”
His eyes flicker with a curious blue fire. “You’re in charge?”
He sounds like he doesn’t quite believe me. He has a point. I’ve never known Noah to show any kind of submission—in anything—and I’ve never tried to take control from him.
“For now.” I lean forward for another quick kiss. “Just this moment. Let me do this for you.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
I slip my fingers into his hair, massage the sides of his head above his ears. Move up to his temples. Sink in to reach farther back. Trail my hands down over his neck, his shoulders. Squeeze and rub as I go along.
Noah groans, and his fingers tighten over my hipbones. He squeezes, drops his head back, closes his eyes, and I smile.
God, touching this man does so much to me. It softens me, strengthens me, weakens me, reinforces everything I am and everything I want to be. My body responds in kind, my nipples going tight and my core becoming damp and needy.
I can’t wait. I need to see him, touch every part of him. Grabbing the hem of his T-shirt, I pull it up over his head and let it fall to the floor. From there, I take my time to look, and trace my fingertips over the myriad tattoos on his chest.
God, he’s amazing! It’s been years since I had the chance to look at him, touch him this way.
The Wycked Obsession logo decorates one pec, while the other has a clever-looking heart. The outline shape is that of wings. Angel wings. The left side is more of an open drawing, the wings light and bright. The other side is dark, the lines filled in and heavy looking. Inside the heart are two figures, the shape of a woman with a halo above her head facing the black profile of Satan.
I bend down, kiss each tattoo and stroke the tips of my fingers over the one with wings. “This one is deep.”
He tilts his head forward, eyes open, and looks at me. He doesn’t smile. “My fight between good and evil.”
“Your good side is a woman?”
He blinks. “My good side is you.”
I swallow, searching for breath. Dear God, he couldn’t have shocked me more.
I can’t think, don’t know what to say, so I slip from his lap to my knees on the floor, forcing his legs to open. There’s another grouping of tattoos along his stomach, a line of individual, rectangular-shaped rocks with symbols that look carved inside them.
“What are these?” I stroke across them.
“Viking runes.”
“Viking?”
He gives an abbreviated laugh. “Bree always teases me about looking like Thor, the long hair and all. It’s why I have the hammer on my arm. But the runes . . .” He shrugs. “I looked up Thor and liked the symbolism.”
“What are they?” I touch the first one.
“That one’s journey.” He points to each of them. “Next is strength. Then protection, growth, and joy.”
“Joy is last.”
“It’s the one hardest to come by.”
I kiss them but waste little time there before I move on. I need more, and so does he.
Noah isn’t wearing a belt today, so it’s easy to unfasten and unzip his shorts. Getting them and his boxers down over his hips is a little more challenging; he’s still seated.
“Paige—” he starts, but I interrupt.
“I need you naked.” I look at him, trap his gaze with mine. If I have any expression at all, it has to be desire. I need him to know how much this means to me. “I need you. Please, Noah. Let me do this.”
He blinks, again, and then he lifts his hips. I tug until the last of his clothes lay in a pile next to me. His cock stands tall and proud and hard, and so close to my mouth.
I reach for him, unable to stop, and curl my fingers around his girth. He growls low in his throat. I lick his tip, circle the crown with my tongue, kiss my way down the underside, and then slide my mouth back up to where I started. I tease my way up and down each side of him, kissing and licking and dragging my lips over every inch of him.
His breathing grows heavy.
I make my way to the top of his dick and the front, tattooed side. That naughty Wycked in its red ink peeks back at me. Barry White’s deep, sexy voice fades in that moment, only to replaced by I Can’t Help Myself by the Four Tops, and I smile.
Carefully, using just the tip of my tongue, I trace each of the cursive letters in the word. When I’m near his crown again, I settle back on my heels to take him fully into my mouth.
> “Jesus, sweetness,” he mutters in a ragged voice, and I notice his hands are fisting the sofa cushion.
I suck on his tip. “You like that, baby?” I ask before I take him back in my mouth, going deeper than before. All the way to the back of my throat. I relax my muscles, go farther, but I still can’t swallow all of him.
I try again. Do it again. Faster. Slower. Hold him in my throat until I can’t breathe. Tears slip down over my cheeks when I go deep, and I love the connection that gives us. I can’t let it go.
I bring my hand into play, stroking up and down in an accompanying rhythm with my mouth. Switching it up, I give my jaws a chance to rest when I cup his balls in a rolling motion. He twitches, and so I take each one in my mouth. I lick and suck, while my other hand strokes his length hard and fast.
Tension grows within him. I can feel it in his legs, his pelvis, his abdomen. He flexes his hips, and then his hand is suddenly at the back of my head, in my hair.
“Baby, you need to stop. I’m too close.” He breathes hard, panting more than anything. “I need a minute unless you want me to come down your throat.”
I smile to myself. That is exactly what I want.
Licking his tip, the salty precum teases my tongue. Satisfaction courses through me. I push forward, taking him as far into my mouth and throat as I ever have and doing my best to ignore my gag reflex.
I stroke him hard and fast, perfectly in time with the rhythm of my mouth, and then he’s there. His hips surge upward, his cock thickens, and streams of cum pour down my throat.
Nothing in this life has ever satisfied me more.
Chapter Thirty-One
Noah
I’m done. Wrung out. Every bit of strength drained from me by Paige and her amazing, very talented mouth.
I want to ask her how she learned to suck cock like that, but I know. She did everything exactly the way I like it, because I taught her. I haven’t known this kind of pleasure since the last time she did me like that.
Still, there’s something different about this orgasm. A huge part of me wants to shy away from figuring it out, but my need to understand is stronger.